


ben_pygmalion

by Temve



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artists, M/M, Nude Modeling, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29563905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temve/pseuds/Temve
Summary: As night falls in his studio, aspiring painter Ben contemplates his latest life-size challenge.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 17
Kudos: 22





	ben_pygmalion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kyber-erso (aoraki)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aoraki/gifts).



> Inspired by kyber-erso (aoraki)'s art that just wouldn't stop talking to me.

Ben Underscore Pygmalion. 

It had started out as a bit of a joke, suggested on a wine-fuelled whim around the paint-stained table after class, and adopted purely because it beat being called Ben Surname Required. And because he was deep into a series of life-size canvases of the human figure; not exactly Instagram fodder by dint of sheer size, but what could one do. It was one more way of getting his work out there, and one that didn’t cost him any extra money.

Worst case, it might keep the series going; the last couple of models had actually been recommendations from previous models, and the more people saw what he’d done to their friends, the more likely he was going to be able to continue exploring nature’s most intricate machine, the human body, from the outside in.

With a sigh, he slipped the phone back into the pocket of his paint-stained hoodie. Looking at past glories in miniature format wasn’t going to help him with his current conundrum.

And it wasn’t like he was going to be able to work on it any more tonight; not only had daylight long faded, the studio illuminated by a pitiful overhead fluorescent tube and the industrial-strength shop light he’d dropped on the floor ages ago, right next to the faded armchair and the wicker screen that the models slipped behind to change.

The model had also long gone home.

He’d been a strange one, a recommendation from Kseniya apparently; his accent, though far from Russian, remained stubbornly unplaceable in the few words they exchanged. Older, with gray streaking his long hair. Impossibly tall; Ben had had to resort to standing on a bench to reach the top parts of the life-size painting without straining his arms.

Scarred; of course, Ben had asked permission before touching the gnarled canyon of whitened skin that ran from his right shoulder blade to the middle of his back. He had received a warm nonverbal grunt of assent, and then another one when he asked, “...the war?” in a voice that surprised him by how small it sounded.

It made sense; the scar, the proud but silent demeanor of the war veteran. The fact that he had introduced himself as Jinn - likely a nickname since he didn’t _look_ Arabic. The way he moved, once he had divested himself of his clothing and stepped up on the low pedestal, spoke of the stealth of a ghost that could easily have earned him the shock and awe of the local population. 

He hadn’t even bothered with a bathrobe, walking out from behind the screen completely nude, stretching his improbably long body slowly, then moving into a series of positions until Ben had to remind himself that it was his job as the artist to say ‘stop’. Or position the model according to his plan.

 _Position the model_. Something about that man’s body forbade even the thought. When he moved, it was with such deliberate precision that Ben found himself wondering whether he _knew_ what the deep shadows at the back of his shoulders were doing. Whether he was, impossibly, directing them just so. 

Ben had never painted uphill this much. Every brush stroke was a struggle, his palette reduced to black and gray to try and capture the bold lines and deep shadows of Jinn’s body. Like calligraphy, every stroke of black added to the giant canvas had demanded utmost precision. Attention. Sensitivity.

And through it all, Jinn had stood there, silent, immutable, like a marble statue, his breath expanding his ribcage imperceptibly. The eyes blinked, surely. Whenever they weren’t busy staring sky-blue holes into Ben’s very soul. 

He’d had to leave them out of the picture for now. As it was, he was sure he was not so much staring at his unfinished work as he was being stared at by it, eyeless and half-abstract though it was.

Jinn, his scar, his gruff voice, his strong arm shielding himself from the outsider’s gaze, his hand fisted in the mane of graying hair. That hand, also unfinished, for reasons that, if Ben was brutally honest, resided somewhere in the depths of his sweat pants.

He _longed_. To be allowed to touch those hands. To have them touch back. To be able to stare back into those eyes and have something meaningful to say that would cause Jinn to utter more than monosyllables. And then, slowly, reverently, like calligraphy, to begin the gentle slide of skin over skin, of shadow over light, until they were reduced back to monosyllables, and wordless sounds.

He had to stand on tiptoes, and he was well aware of the ridiculousness of the act, but he could not, and would not stop himself. Here was a myth worth bowing to, in the quiet of his deserted study, under cover of night.

Coming away with lips smeared with black paint, ben_pygmalion did no more and no less than justice to his name.


End file.
